In a Thousand Words
by Kaitlinbell
Summary: A large compilation of oneshots. All short in length but great in number. All MarcoDylan as well though a few other pairings may sneak in. Several more to come.
1. Chapter 1

It's when you're told no.

That's the clincher. You think everything's going to be alright and all the sudden you have everything you ever worked for, everything you ever dreamed for, snatched away before your very eyes as if it meant nothing. As if it wasn't the world to you.

It was the day you asked your ma if Dylan could come to Italy with you over the summer. Oh you had wanted it so bad you could almost taste it, cool, sweet, and lighter than air. Like a golden tendril of sunshine dancing on your tongue. And then she says no and the light disappates, that glowing smoke is gone, all that's left is dead, dark air. It tastes like dust.

It's not as if this request was a normal one. It was not as if it could have been so lightly cast aside as it had been.

You see, you had found the ring. Oh he didn't know it yet of course, but you had found it, buried in his sock drawer. So obvious really. It was a plain gold band, a single smooth diamond sunk in as if it were part of it. And it stayed there in that sock drawer, such an intimate place really if you thought about it, and it waited for you.

It was those leading questions that got you to thinking. The way he'd always ask where the sunset was the most beautiful in Rome. Where you liked to go to have fun. It was beyond obvious when he was going to ask. Painfully obvious even.

But you were told no.

And that ring is still sitting in that sock drawer while you pack. You can hear it, it's calling your name, seeking the words and seeking the warmth of your finger. It's calling out for the right moment.

But it was told no.

And it's not til you're at the airport, staring off into space and hating your mother so much. Your ma ruined the moment. She ruined the romance, the thought, the inspiration. She ruined it all.

That was until a strong hand grabbed your upper arm outside of customs. Behind you stands the man with the blue eyes and the blonde curls and the smile that's more brilliant than any sunset in the entire world. He's holding a small velvet box in one hand and you're surrounded by foreign people, all pushing and shoving and lugging large suitcases, mopping at their sweaty faces with dirty handkerchiefs and yelling at small misbehaving children. It's a three ring circus and you're right in the middle of it all...

You're right in the middle of it all with the man you love staring into your eyes.

And right there, right then, he's on one knee and he's saying things that you never thought you'd hear. Only they're hard to hear, over the roaring voices, and you're getting dirty looks as mothers cover their children's eyes. But...

But strangely...Marco was smiling. He was smiling like he'd never smiled before. Maybe because that sunshine was dancing on his tongue again. Or maybe it was the fact that for once...

For once the answer wasn't no.


	2. Man of Music

The lights flashed down bright pink and blue and Marco threw his head back as the song hit a high note, rushing to a climax and exploding into a crash of sound and power and bright white intensity. All around him people jumped and moved faster, harder, with renewed vigor as the music hurtled on at this new speed like it was driving forward to enter your brain, your bloodstream, until it filled you. Until the music was in your body and you really and truly could feel it pumping through your veins.

It was intoxicating.

Burning.

Feverish.

It was like standing on a deserted hill in the middle of a thunderstorm. The storms raged overhead pouring smoke and metallic bits of paper. Lighting fell down in mutli-colors. It was life and death waging. Power, energy, light, darkness, heat, cold...breathing...falling..._living..._

And this is why he came back night after night. He danced to the same rhythmic beat, raised his hands, moved, rolled, twisted just like every other faceless person around him, pressing in too tightly. It was like a giant one man machine. Even if you were all dancing to a different tune, moving one way, then another, you were still _moving_, one big dancing, gyrating mass. And it felt great. There are no thoughts, no worries, no pleasures, just that same amazingly electric beat and the hot breath on your neck and the swivel of your own hips among many.

The rhythm slowed as a pause sounded silently throughout the room, just as loud as the thrumming beat ever was. It was almost like you could hear every single heart beat other than your own in that split second. Every beat, every breath, every light lift and fall and sigh of a chest next to you or ten feet away. But then the music pounds right back up to the sky, crashing into your ears and tidal waving through the people straight to you. You're who it's after tonight. You're the one who's begging it to take you. Begging it to transform you.

It meets the call with startling intensity, pulsing down your spine and alighting fire in it's wake. You're arms move on their own accord and they move without a thought down your sides, trailing ribs, brushing a waisteline until you might just die from the intensity, because it's crushing your lungs until you can't breathe and fogging your head and stealing your soul. And you smile and move faster, more sensually, because this is what you came for.

You came for the fire. You came for the feel. For the torture. For the pleasure.

For the music.

And for the escape.

Strong arms wrap around your waist for the first time tonight and you think this one has to be amazing if only his arms were an indication. You don't turn though, even as the music slows once again. The man's breath is like white flame on the back of your neck and it burns the skin there. His hands brush across the top of your thighs, but you keep you keep your eyes closed, instead of looking at the fingers, too completely immersed in the sounds and the sighs and the amazing heartbeat fluttering against your back.

He's whispering nonsense into your ears, but you don't care. It could be anything. He could be calling you names, telling you you look like a god, or even saying the most sexually appealing drivel of yoru life, but honestly your brain is somewhere else. It's dancing with the music. It's selling its soul to the rhythm, to the pulse, to the sheer gripping climb of the notes, and then their victorious fall, over and over, completely and utterly owned by the crash and build of ecstasy.

You're addicted to the rush like a chain smoker. It's filling your lungs, blackening you from the inside out, but it's the most beautiful way of dying you can imagine. It lifts you higher, closer to God, closer to an explosion of the mind that you just _know_ is waiting for you at the top.

The hands rise up, sliding, dragging, your shirt draws up the smallest bit but you don't notice. The hands are near scorching and you can almost see the flames from beneath your closed eyelids. You can feel it. The music. It's in him too. It's dragging trails of fire through his blood. It's in his hands, the hips tucked against yours, that most infuriating and awe inspiring breath on your neck. It's pouring off of him in waves of eminence and power and brawn. It just screamed for submission, it just begged and pleaded to listen, to look, to dive straight into the darkness that engulfed him, into the arms that scorched where they touched.

Because he was sent from the music.

He _was_ the music.

Turning around you stare straight into the music's eyes. They're as blue as the high notes and as deep and playful as the chorus, little pink lights flashing across their glassy surface like it belonged there. He's bright, shining, golden, like the fire, like the flashes of lightning, and that slow, gentle dawn every single time the pauses rolled through the air.

He was beautiful.

"Hey Marco. Thought I'd find you here."

But the music was still blaring in his head, still singing through his veins, and sinking velvet claws into his heart as it soared higher. The blue eyes glanced over him appreciatively, flashing electricity and coaxing, pushing him to keep going as if he had never spoken in the first place. As if he had never messed with the delicate cloud of energy and emotion and living rapture that he came for.

You fall into the arms of the one who gets it. The one who simply _is._

Somehow you forget he is the reason you came to lose yourself in the first place.


	3. Fragility

If there are ANY darco fans out there AT ALL who write, or draw, or make graphics, or just DISCUSS Darco DARCO APPRECIATION WEEK is going on RIGHT NOW. And it's kinda flopping and it's SAD. So if you CAN contribute pleeeease do so! We're very excited for new people and whatever we can get to share the darco love. It'll be over on the 24th so we really want to get as much as possible while it's still around! Thank you. :love: There is linkage in my profile! go!

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Dylan shot upright in bed, chest heaving in time with his heart and cold sweat sticking to his skin. Flashes of nightmares sped before his eyes, slowly dissolving into the black. The dark room was completely, eerily silent save for his own labored breathing mingling with the faint serenade of crickets outside and the AC coughing into life and then dying.

Next to him a whisper of sheets filtered into the velvet silence and, dream forgotten, Dylan turned his head. Beside him lay Marco, curled over on his side tightly, facing him and breathing softly, fragilely. He felt his gaze soften automatically.

It had been ages since Dylan had gotten to watch Marco sleep, so busy falling into an exhausted coma every night and hitting the snooze button repeatedly in the morning to spare the time. He remembers earlier in their relationship he used to lie awake simply for this...this charged quiet, almost tangible, precariously held together with thin paper dreams and scotch tape sighs. Some nights the feelings would feel so great, so monumental, and Dylan feared this perfect peace, this awe inspiring breathing silence, would be shattered...become little melancholy fragments of perfection littering his bedspread.

Marco shifted quietly beside him, shrinking even further into himself, his curly hair falling into his face. Dylan smiled softly, reaching up a hand to brush back the hair, fingers lingering and ghosting in silent contemplation.

Missing this, he decided, was such a pity. Being able to observe someone you hold so dear when they are at their most vulnerable, most trusting. It was a strange feeling, knowing a person has that extraordinary faith in you, knowing Marco was so sure of his presence, so sure of _him_ that he could slumber at his side without worry and without consequence. It was humbling in the most terrifying way.

How easy it would be to simply slide out of the covers, walk out the door, and disappear into the night. And yet Marco slept on beside him every night without fail, eyelashes fluttering and warm breath melting into his skin, smelling of that expensive shampoo and sunshine and smiles, all soft skin and dazzling beauty until Dylan felt like giving up on everything because it simply didn't make _sense_. He had been told so early in life that no one was perfect.

Had they lied?

Dylan ran his fingers down the man's cheek. Perhaps they hadn't lied. After all he was still so very surprised he had been given the chance to know this person, to speak to him for five minutes of time, to know that subtle quality that just _was_. Maybe they simply hadn't known Marco, he decided. And he pitied them for that. Because surely then...they'd have known without a shadow of doubt perfection was alive and well, breathing right beside him in the oncoming dawn.

He realized there was a lump in his throat, and Dylan swallowed painfully, brushing his fingers yet more softly against the light shadows of Marco's temple, watching those delicate eyelashes jump the smallest bit in sleep at the touch.

With a tiny heartfelt sigh he lifted his fingers, allowing them simply hover above the younger man's cheek, almost certain he could feel the dizzying heat emanatating from his skin. The Italian was a furnace when he slept, even though Dylan knew Marco was constantly freezing. At night Marco would climb into bed and immediately clutch to Dylan's side, soaking up the heat and comfort offered there. In return Marco always took a shower before bed, so that his hair would be wet and cool to the touch so Dylan wouldn't burn up completely, being hot-blooded. But the fact remained, that during the night Dylan would reach a point of passing out from the heat in the room and have to very gently pry away Marco and scoot him to the other side of the side.

The Italian of course never knew until morning and usually built a cocoon of blankets in his sleep, burrowing deeper and deeper as the hours went by until every inch of olive skin was obscured from view.

Right now all Dylan truly saw was the man's face and he marveled at the soft lines there, the shadow of lashes against cheek, and the faint stirring of hair across his forehead. He could truly watch Marco forever, he thought, slowly allowing the elbow he was propped up on to slide down, his head coming to lie on the pillow as he stared silently.

What would he give, Dylan wondered, to simply make the night hours last longer. To keep this cherished silence even one second longer than he was given. One breath more of serenity. A last infinitesimal of grace to remind him of what he lived for.

Out of the ghostly, penetrating silence the faint rustle of whispering sheets sounded once more and Dylan watched as a small dark hand creeped out from under a blanket near his stomach. It made him smile for unknown reasons and instead of jump towards the touch immediately he laid deathly still, waiting. As if sensing the lack of reaction even in sleep Marco unconsciously moved his hand further from it's warm sanctuary and inched further, touching Dylan's chest, causing him to inhale sharply but still not move.

As if pulled by silent strings thin, spidering fingers trailed up, running along his arm with aching slowness. Dylan felt his eyes flutter shut against the thousands of heartbreaking feelings this single touch of fingertips stirred within him and as the hand finally reached his neck, curling securely there and protecting the fine beat of his heart like a fragile guard, Dylan felt his self-restraint fall away.

Swallowing against the restriction in his throat once again, stunned it was still there, he raised his own hand, sliding it gently and lovingly under the covers, finding the Italian's arm and following up until he allowed his hand to cup Marco's throat as well, thumb brushing against the soft skin, eyes stock still as if waiting for the eyes to open at the touch, as if waiting for the moment to break.

But the frail moment held tightly, the dust quiet left undisturbed and his paper heart in one piece.

Marco shuffled his body across the small space seperating them in his sleep, curling even tighter and closer to Dylan than usual, his head burying in Dylan's chest and his tiny hand keeping it's place over the most precarious part of Dylan.

The beat of his heart.

Dylan wondered if Marco could feel it breaking, too full of everything...every touch, every sigh, every unheard declaration that fell on sleeping ears.

Batting away the heart-rendering feelings for yet another night Dylan pulled Marco closer, completely unaware of the sweltering heat of the night and instead focusing on the amazing _warmth_ of Marco, of the man he loved and the amazing hush that danced around him...

All he could feel was Marco breathing beside him. In...and out...in...and out...as steady as the minutes that ticked by in blissful ignorance...of the small, soul-shaking moment they were a part of.

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Your brain is telling you to review. o.o it is. it is. 


	4. Hallelujah

Haha hello again? Yes, I died quite literally. I've been gone for well over several months. Mostly because all I've been doing is either not writing at all due to "meh" or because I'm only working on projects that I don't want to post til later. The to-do list is so large. But I'm finally getting on the ball somewhat. Expect a JaSB, Reunion, and Reckless chapter pretty soon. ATG maybe if I can swing it. Busy busy. In the meantime I'm just reposting some lj stories onto This one and the next are both old, but the last is new. So...I will see you all soon. Hopefully. Cross your fingers. I hope this tides you over for another god knows how long.

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_I've heard there was a secret chord_

_That David played and it pleased the Lord_

_But you don't really care for music, do you?_

When Dylan was little he remembered early Sunday mornings. The days when he was stuffed into stiff and uncomfortable clothes and his grubby face was rubbed clean in a most gruff manner by his mother with a wet tissue. Thousands of this same routine acted out over and over again every weekend.

As a six year old he didn't have any respect for the practice. All he really cared about was the fact that he had been woken up_ entirely_ too early if he did say so himself, and that he was forced to sit through three hours of some guy called "Rev" talk about coats of many colors and water being turned to wine (which is the icky blood looking stuff his mommy drank)

It wasn't until he was twelve years old did he finally come to a full realization of what this Sunday ritual really was. What it meant to him. And at that age he started to actually _listen_ for the first time.

Now, six years later, he found it odd that it should come back all the sudden for such odd reasons.

In the end, it was all about Lazarus. The fateful man who was given a second chance at life, who had his very essence breathed back into himself, to walk another day. It had always been Dylan's favorite miracle of them all, as he had avidly told his Sunday school teachers in, what had once been his very squeaky voice.

'It was just like those zombie movies' he would exclaim in childish excitement. A man, a corpse, brought back to life. It had never once scared him before, he remembered. The very idea of the dead walking and breathing and moving about like everyone else had fascinated him to no end.

No, it had never bothered him at all. Until Marco.

_It goes like this_

_The fourth, the fifth_

_The minor fall, the major lift_

_The baffled king composing Hallelujah_

Dylan didn't really think about boys that often.

Again, it was probably all that religion getting to him. All those Sunday mornings being told that homosexuals were basically wrong. A sin. He had always wondered what a "homosexual" was during these sermons…but he easily forgot when the cute boy beside him asked what page they were on.

Sure, later, the implications of all this hit him square between the eyes like a ton of bricks. And now, finally after all this time, he was learning to deal with who he was and what that meant for him.

He knew he was gay, he knew when someone that constituted as a "looker" passed by. He didn't need anyone to tell him what was attractive and what was not. After all, he was still a teenage boy, complete with his teenage boy hormones and every bit as stupid as the rest.

But the fact still remained that he was more or less blind to his own sexuality. He flirted, did traveling eyes, bedroom voices...it didn't matter. He never really meant it after all. It was all one big joke after another.

Then a small, little Italian boy walked into his life. Marco had been cute beyond imagination, with his perfect hair and big, dark brown eyes. He was short, childish looking, open and easy to laugh, even easier to blush, such a beautiful sight to behold really. He stood out from everyone else. He held a different tune in his walk than anyone else, though the boy never acknowledged it himself. Then again, there was another thing to add to his perfection.

While Dylan didn't really think about boys that often, he most certainly thought about Marco. As frequently as possible. Little abstract thoughts as his day progressed. Sometimes Tom would smile at him in history. That same whimsical and predatory smile the teen always wore...but somehow Dylan always looked right through it, saw a row of silver lined teeth winking up adorably instead.

Mrs. Ripley would ask him about an Italian Renaissance artist and Dylan would distractedly wonder if Marco could paint. Sometimes even the stupidest things like a pencil or a bird, or even one odd occasion, Paige's nail polish would cause him to make quick circular links in his mind straight to the other boy he seemed to have become so very enamored with.

Before Dylan cared to acknowledge it, two months of his life had passed before his smitten and clouded eyes, and still the infatuation stood, stronger than ever before, like a glorious, irritating itch that could never be scratched in his position.

Relief, he knew, only came in one form, and that was to have Marco smiling at him, not because he had made a joke like he was wont to do in the younger boy's company, but because Dylan had kissed him, had whispered in his ear. He wanted to have this boy pour out his soul, both willingly and honestly, simply because he found comfort in his arms of all people.

It was such a confusing thing to think about. On one hand, he wanted this more than anything. Growing up a spoiled child, getting every single thing he asked for with a few tears or well placed words, he now found himself in a predicament that couldn't be solved with easy inveiglement. Now…he had to win over someone honestly.

But the fact still remained. The time to ask had come. That much was apparent.

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

He thought about it a lot. This asking out business. He didn't kid himself. He was a brave person by nature, easily taking people up on dares and getting into all kinds of trouble without batting an eyelash in the face of cruel punishment or disappointment. However, he would be the first to admit that when it came to Marco…things were always a little different. Always.

Oh, but he thought about it. Thought about the way the Italian boy would smile that bashful smile, how his eyes would light up the same way they did when Paige talked about movie stars she liked with him. He'd imagine the stray lock of hair falling over one eye, hiding that shine he thought about at nights when sleep didn't come.

He thought about holding his hand, brushing soft circles over the back. Pressing kisses all over him. Because it was those silly thoughts that kept him from running. Kept him from backing down from the daunting task completely.

It was the idea of the amazing sigh of relief that made him consider.

_Your faith was strong but you needed proof_

In the end, phenomenally enough, it had been Spinner who had given him the jump he needed, the spark into action he so craved. Within that same day he somehow found the guts to do it.

Dylan didn't think he'd ever forget it.

Marco had been so unaware, so very naïve and bashful. It had been wonderful. He'd put in his best words, smiled his smile, all while his stomach had turned to ice, or worms, or butterflies, he had been too nervous to describe it. But in the end, the very same smile he had imagined made it's bright and shining appearance, even more dazzling and even more perfect than his mind's eye could ever wish to recreate.

It was a smile, that in times to come, would appear more and more less often, and become worth its weight in gold, become the most precious commodity he had ever had.

_You saw her bathing on the roof_

_Her beauty_

_In the moonlight_

_Overthrew you_

_She tied you_

_To a kitchen chair_

_She broke your throne_

_She cut your hair_

_And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah_

And then it all fell apart.

It was…on our anniversary sadly enough. Of all the influential days that tragedies could happen…why did the fates grace us then I always wonder? And a Sunday of all days! After a most uplifting morning of mass and the prospect of kissing Marco goodbye that night! It was like the proverbial rug being pulled from beneath your feet.

Outside of Marco's house in my Sunday best I heard Italian shouting from inside, and unable to think of a more appropriate way to deal with the situation I went to the back of the house where the Del Rossi's back door stood wide open to let in the warm spring air and a window stood bare and inviting.

Curious as the cat…I stealthily peaked inside and watched…listened…with baited breath.

And what I saw….

The Italian boy I had come to love more than anything else in the world stood in the middle of his immaculate kitchen eyes downcast and shoulders looking as if the world itself sat there.

His hair, oh how I had always loved his hair! It was the very epitome of style and grace, even on its worse days. Perfectly in place and soft to the touch and framing his face like nothing I had ever seen.

But it was gone…nothing but a short and choppy mess lay atop his head…chunks of his once beautiful locks lying strewn across the floor like pieces of a broken heart.

Mr. Del Rossi was still screaming, spittle flying, and Marco only continued to look down, reaching up with shaking hands, removing his earrings as the onslaught continued. As he lifted his head slightly to better remove them his face came into my view…glistening tracks of tears catching the light.

My name came up several times in between the harsh Italian. I cringed each and every time.

Marco never said a word.

I stayed during the entire speech, watching him be belittled again and again, cuffed aside the head, his now short hair being pulled when he "wasn't listening". And I stand by my thoughts that day…you think you could never survive if something like that happens to you…

It's even worse when it happens to someone you care about.

_Maybe I've been here before_

_I know this room, I've walked this floor_

I wish sometimes that I could show him…could tell him…I was there, that I knew his pain…but I've never gotten as far.

I wish sometimes that I could tell him what my hockey mates used to say when I was ousted…what bile they used to continually hang over my head. The death threats, the beatings, the words…

But then…I don't think it even comes close. He was your father. He was everything you needed and everything you couldn't have. So I stay silent.

It pains me that you do as well.

_I used to live alone before I knew you_

_I've seen your flag on the marble arch_

_Love is not a victory march_

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah_

After that momentous day I had every flighty high ideal of love that I had ever harbored from my mother ripped away before my very eyes. It was never all roses and satin sheets, sea breeze and moonlit walks. There was this darker side to it all that everyone had forgotten to mention.

That their pain…ultimately…became yours as well.

_There was a time you'd let me know_

_What's real and going on below_

_But now you never show it to me do you?_

I've hated your father with a passion for years now. After your parents divorce you were in shambles…crying in my arms for weeks to come and it killed me Marco. Did you know?

Did you never wonder why I cried with you?

You've gotten better in recent days to the point where you can talk about it more freely. But there is always this great overwhelming sense of hesitancy in you. I try daily to make you understand how much I love you…how stupid your father was…how much your mother loves you.

And I know without a doubt that I have gotten that through your head often enough for you to believe it…just some nights you forget.

Those are harder to live with.

_Remember when I moved in you?_

_The holy dark was moving too_

_And every breath we drew was a hallelujah._

Tonight…you finally told me. You finally told me everything about that sad Sunday so long ago. Told me about the hair cut…where you were thrown into a kitchen chair and your mama was forced outside.

It had been about church. The sermon had been on homosexuality. You had been caught. You had been found out.

And you paid so dearly.

I myself told you I had watched. And you hated me for a week after that. I don't blame you. But I can also swear that it was the worst week of my life…being away when you felt so horrible. I can only guess what terrible things were crawling through your mind in my absence.

_Remember when I moved in you?_

_The holy dark was moving too_

_And ever breath we drew was hallelujah_

You came back seven days later with an ultimatum. I was never to lie to you again and you promised to do the same. It was a breathtaking thing…feeling you in my arms again, you're now long hair (oh how I had missed it) brushing my throat and hesitant fingers curling into my shirt and I can't remember ever holding my breath as long as I did in that never ending moment.

We mad love that night. But it was nothing compared to the embrace so many hours before it. The simple fact to have you back somehow outweighed everything else I had ever held dear.

I suppose that's what love was all about in the end.

You were a broken person. And by God I saw it! I knew it! I saw you with this odd cloud hanging over your heart every day of your life. You were jaded, and miserable, and distrusting…

And I loved you anyway. In complete honesty…I loved you so very much _more_ for it.

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Maybe there's a god above_

_And all I ever learned from love_

_Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you_

_It's not a cry you can hear at night_

_It's not somebody who's seen the light_

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah._

So…I'm one of those who was dealt the less than story book picture of romance. My hand was full of heart break, and tyrant fathers, and nightmares, and fallen locks of hair.

Marco cries in his sleep some nights. He's not a better person from what he's gone through…he's not some inspired person driven on with their life away from the pain in their past.

Marco lived for me. Lived for love and what little that could give him.

I don't deserve. I know that much. I've spent many nights battling with myself…wanting him to venture into the wide world and fine someone who could calm his shattered heart better than I.

But then that would mean letting go of something.

Letting go of the one hurt that I _wanted_ to feel.

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

And you know? He's still here.

We went to mass this Sunday with his mom.

Remember that smile of his?

He still smiles it.

He smiles it every damn day.

And he smiles it for me.


	5. Morning

Marco shifted and buried his nose further into the sweet smelling pillow, not yet ready to move from the warmth of the bed. It was the end of May and the weather was warming up slightly. He could feel cozy rays of sunlight pouring onto his bare back from the bedroom window, a few twittering birds made a racket outside.

He could hear muted, but still rather enthusiastic singing from downstairs, wafting up to him and tickling his ears, choruses louder than the rest of the song and high notes breaking from time to time. Marco smiled lazily into his pillow, gripping it closer. Dylan could sing rather well, especially when he thought no one was listening. He never let anyone but Marco hear him either, except for maybe his best friend, and not too often at that, so getting to hear these small unguarded moments always warmed him.

Minutes ticked by luxuriously and still Marco didn't move, entirely too comfortable in his little nest of blankets to mess with movement. He realized the other side of the bed still held the lingering heat of the man that had slept there and on impulse he snuggled and wormed his way over, settling into the familiarly scented warmth there in favor of his own side.

The smells of breakfast lingered in the sunshine filled air and he felt his priorly happy stomach give a weak protest. Marco groaned into the mattress.

With one last lame attempt to stay in bed, Marco finally disentangled himself from the blankets ever so slowly, reluctant to part with them. He moved lethargically, grabbing the pajama pants off the floor and slipping them on, almost falling over in the process as his leaden limbs refused to cooperate.

He padded downstairs, cursing the fact that he had forgotten to grab a pair of socks as well as the night chilled carpet on the stairs froze his feet. He rounded the corner at the bottom and the sight that met him made him smile softly.

Dylan stood at the stove dressed in a pair of pajama pants as well, hair completely wild and everywhere, strange patterns of curls sticking out from his head. The curtains were drawn back on the window above the sink and the sunny light that had warmed him up in the bedroom fell on Dylan's broad shoulders and spread blonde fire through his hair.

With a small appreciative sigh Marco moved from the wall and tip toed over soundlessly to wrap his arms around the older man's waist and bury his cold nose in the sun warmed back. Dylan started a bit but relaxed just as quickly, lifting an arm so Marco could slide under and hug him from the side.

Marco looked at the pan of frying eggs and then up to Dylan. "They're not poisoned are they?"

Dylan only snorted lazily and continued cooking with one hand, humming a song and letting words formulate under his breath when the song hit a high point. Marco only squeezed his waist tighter, enjoying the heat and the lazy sunlight, the smell of food and the vibration of Dylan's chest as he sang.

Marco had missed Dylan. The blonde had been in America all last week for a hockey game and Marco had stayed home, clicking at his computer and getting absolutely nowhere on his work. It wasn't as if it was the first time the man had gone away for a game. But every time Marco went into a small fit of depression because their home was so very quiet and so very cold when Dylan wasn't around.

Every time Dylan returned it was like this, Marco realized. He would wake up in bed and there would be the warmth of another body on the bed clothes for the first time in days and it was like a breath of fresh air every time. The curtains on all the windows in the house would always be pulled open. His roommate hated the brightness, Dylan would always explain. He never got to have an open window at their hotels or on the plane and so when he got home he made sure he felt every ray of light available. And Dylan would always be downstairs when Marco woke up, cooking something and singing for him.

Marco didn't know if Dylan actually knew when he was awake, or even if he sang simply so Marco could hear. But he believed that Dylan did just that. Sang from downstairs loudly and surely so he could hear, be apart of probably the most private part of Dylan.

He never dared sing with him, his voice was too high pitched and his embarrassment came too easy. But he enjoyed just being able to listen. To listen and appreciate something about Dylan that no one else shared.

It made the mornings Dylan returned that much more special and worth clinging to. And it also made the days he had to say goodbye... a bit easier.

And when they would sit down to eat Dylan would always have one thought to give him. "No hockey when I'm old," he'd say quietly, and then they would smile and eat in silence, bathed in sunlight and hushed sung notes.

There would be no leaving when they were old. And Dylan had promised forever.

Marco would always nod and wrap his foot around Dylan's under the table. He could wait. He had a thousand lazy Sunday mornings to hear him promise after all.

I wanna wake up where you are  
I won't say anything at all  
So why don't you slide  
Yeah we're gonna let it slide


	6. Stupid Tall People

Marco hated, no loathed, things being on the top shelf. Whoever put things there, he decided, was evil and knew better than to give him such a hard time. He crossed his arms and scowled bitterly at the refrigerator, the innocent box of cereal perched on top almost smugly, mockingly.

Sighing agitatedly yet again Marco began the ritual. He jumped and strained on tip toes, arms and legs stretching to their utmost limits, fingers grasping at air only inches away. So close but so very far away. He hopped again and again, pads of his fingers brushing the box but never catching, his feet hitting the floor after each fruitless jump louder than the last.

Marco took a final deep breath, certain this time he would succeed. His knees bent and his one hand rested on the handle for a push. This time he'd get it.

With a tremendous bound of energy Marco hopped...and missed completely.

Marco scowled. Rolling his eyes he went back to his simple reaching and straining.

Suddenly the air displaced around him, and without looking he knew it was Dylan. When a large arm came into view he knew without a doubt.

However as he watched Dylan's arm move, broad hand closing around the glossy cereal box so far above his head...Marco decided the thing he loathed was more than items out of his reach.

In detached horror he watched the blond smile stupidly at him and walk away, plopping on the couch and eating handfuls of the sugary cereal as if he _hadn't_ just stolen it from directly in front of him, while he _just_ so happened to have been trying so diligently to get it down. Oh no.

Growling low in his throat Marco crossed the room, grabbing a handful of blonde curls and leaning down to whisper into his ear.

"I want that," he whispered in a deadly tone.

Dylan, fist full of hair obviously not bothering him in the least, grinned up at him in amusement, popping a few more pieces into his mouth.

"Want what" he asked innocently.

Marco leaned back in shock, staring at him wide eyed before pouncing _right_ over the back of the couch, jumping onto the blonde and knocking them both to the floor. Their bodies hit the carpet with a muted thump and suddenly there was a flurry of activity. Arms and legs went flying in all direction, more play than fight as both sought out ticklish spots and sensitive pressure points, laughs breaking in from time to time amid the fumbling bumps.

Dylan was the first to change the mock wrestling match to something even more fun, grabbing Marco's face, a hand resting gently under his jawline to pull him forward into a kiss. The Italian fought against the other man for several seconds, trying to prolong their earlier fighting in order to turn tables but the other's significant size and weight were prohibiting him. Within a moment he had given up, kissing back ardently as well as playfully, nipping at lips and tugging at hair.

The blonde for his part didn't seem to mind at all, fighting back, licking his throat and biting his chin in a decidedly silly manner, both smiling goofily inbetween sweet pecks.

After several minutes Marco finally broke apart from the embrace, falling back defeated only to hear a series of tiny crunches.

Sitting up with difficulty, owing to the heavy body on top of his he looked down at the floor, seeing a great mess of sugary powder, remnants of the cereal that had started this whole wiggly situation. He felt himself roll his eyes, grabbing a handful of uncrushed cereal from a few inches away, popping them in his mouth before letting his head fall back to the floor.

"You tall people suck you know."

Dylan only snorted. "Of course babe."

Marco shrugged. Oh well. He'd gotten the cereal. Maybe he should just keep the tall person around after all.


End file.
